


To me, fair friend, you never can be old

by katnor



Series: Elves in Time [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 15th Century, Art, Gen, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katnor/pseuds/katnor
Summary: A struggling sculptor in 15th century Italy is saved from some ruffians by the loveliest man he has ever seen. He persuades his saviour to model for a sculpture of the god Eros.





	To me, fair friend, you never can be old

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to NelyafinweFeanorion for helping me sort out the text and patch up some plot holes!

The sculptor had been working on the Eros statue for days. It was slow, hot and heavy work, not to mention frustrating. The frustrating part stemmed from the fact that his model was as far from the god of love and desire as you could possibly get. He was not very young, for one, and though fairly fit, he had a bit of a pot belly and his nose looked like a somewhat mashed potato. Not terribly inspiring. He sighed, wiping his hands with a wet cloth and told the model he was free to go, paying him the promised fee with a heavy heart.

He knew this work would be his crowning achievement, but he needed the right model to get his creativity unlocked. Thus far, he hadn’t found him. This was the fourth one he’d tried, and he’d really had high hopes, until the man took his clothes off. 

It was time to get drunk, he decided. He washed off the stone dust, changed into clean everyday clothes and left his workshop. Upon entering the tavern, he was greeted by some of his friends, who had already wet their parched throats somewhat by the looks of them. He ordered a bottle of wine and a glass and sank down in the corner, sighing in despair. The first glass of wine went down so quickly he hardly had time to swallow. 

“Hey, Francesco, what’s with the glum face?” 

“I paid off my model today. Didn’t ask him to come back.”

There were sympathising exclamations all around. They all knew what the life of an artist was like. Francesco had a commission, which meant if he didn’t deliver the very thing the customer wanted, he didn’t get paid. They also knew he’d been having trouble finding the right model, and that this spelled disaster for his future as a sculptor. 

“Maybe hold back a little on the wine, eh?”, one of his friends suggested. “It’s bad enough as it is, you don’t need a hangover on top of it.” 

The sculptor grimaced, but knew his friend was right. He didn’t have a lot of money left, anyway, after he paid his last model, and he needed keep a tight fist if he was going to be able to pay a new one, if he ever found one that had what he was looking for. Well, he still had the rest of the wine bottle, maybe he could take it home and save it for another bad day. Or, he could just have one more glass. 

He did that, and then one more, and one more, and before he knew it, the bottle was empty and he was quite drunk. His friend Leonardo, who had tried persuading him to drink less, helped him out of the tavern, and they walked, or maybe staggered towards his cheap boarding room. The last part of the way he had to walk by himself, as Leonardo lived closer to the tavern. It didn’t matter, he felt a little sobered up by that time, and wound his way through the narrow streets with more confidence than before. It turned out he got too confident, and unexpectedly Francesco lost his balance and toppled over, nearly hitting his head on the cobblestones. As he tried to get to his feet again, he was accosted by two shady-looking men.

“You might as well give us what’s left in your purse, or you’ll drink that too!” 

Francesco tried to tear loose, but the men grabbed him, and one of them suddenly had a knife at his throat. 

“We weren’t asking. We were telling you.”

His blood ran cold. These ruffians would knife him for the few coins he had left, and then kick his body into the gutter and think no more of it, he was sure. He thought of his Eros sculpture, that would never be finished, and wondered who would even remember Francesco, the pauper who fancied himself an artist and got mugged and killed on a street corner by his house.

“Hey – you there! Let him go, or you’ll regret it!”

The voice was loud and confident. The two miscreants laughed and jeered: 

“You’re just one man, and pretty enough to be a woman! C’mere sweetheart, after we get his money maybe we can buy you a drink and show you a good time!”

Next thing Francesco knew, the knife at his throat was gone, and the thug wielding it was unconscious on the cobblestones. His companion quickly tried to scramble away, but whoever knocked out the first one was a lot faster. Only a blur was visible, and then the man was groaning, leaned against a wall, cradling his broken arm in his good hand. His eyes were huge and scared, and a puddle slowly formed around his feet. 

Then soft, warm hands took hold of Francesco’s, and he looked into slanted, amber eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. His saviour looked worried, and said, in a soft, melodious voice:

“Are you all right? They didn’t harm you?”

The sculptor shook his head mutely. He studied the man who had saved him closely, noting the long, raven black hair, done up in a thick braid, the slim but still muscular build, and how tall he was. His eyebrows were dark and resembled wings, which gave him a slightly sardonic air. His skin was pale and without a blemish, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut yourself on. He had full, rosy lips, and a strong jawline. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and Francesco though nothing short of an angel or a god could compare. 

“Eros…” he whispered.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else”, the dark-haired vision said. “You can call me… Ress.” Then he turned towards the two ruffians, one trying to pick himself up from the street, the other still holding his broken arm and wailing in pain. “Get lost, before I get really angry!” The two ran.

The man who called himself Ress put a hand lightly on Francesco’s arm and studied him intently. 

“Are you certain you’re unharmed? You’re bleeding, but it doesn’t seem too bad. Can I take you home, help you clean that up and bandage it?”

“Please. And then, if you would… be my model?”

“Model?” Dark eyebrows rose to his hairline. 

“I’m a sculptor… I got a commission, and I need to finish it, only I fired my model today, and I need someone to pose for the sculpture.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“Eros, god of love and desire. You would be perfect.”

There went the eyebrows again. Francesco blushed and started stuttering excuses, but the lovely dark-haired man held up a hand.

“I’ll do it. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I get to have a say in it before you turn it over to your patron. And… no more drinking yourself into a stupor. It’s not good for you, and not good for your creativity.”

“That’s two conditions”, Francesco deadpanned. He almost thought he’d gone too far, annoyed the beautiful man, and tried to think of how to apologise, when the stranger burst out laughing. 

“Why so it is. You know, I think I like you, and I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m called Francesco Laurana.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Francesco the sculptor. Now let’s get you home and cleaned up, and then we can discuss this modelling business.”

Safely in his boarding room, clean and bandaged (it seemed he’d gotten a shallow nick from having a knife pressed to his throat), Francesco felt a little faint for all he’d averred he was all right. He sat on the edge of the bed, willing himself to stop shaking, when the beautiful Ress sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. 

“It’s all right to feel shaken”, he said. “Most people would be after a scare like that. You were really lucky nothing worse happened – maybe stay away from deserted streets next time you’re blind drunk… or bring someone with you.”

He didn’t have the energy to point out he had, in fact, had company for most of the way. Instead he said:

“Could I ask you to come by tomorrow, so I can get started again on my work? I’m going to need to start almost from the beginning. I’m not sure I can pay you very much…”, he trailed off, and got a sinking feeling when the dark-haired beauty shook his head slowly.

“No…”, Ress began, “I am not going to take your money. Let’s just see how it turns out. You might realise I’m not a good model for what you had in mind anyway.” 

Francesco was so relieved his comely saviour wasn’t backing out of their deal he felt like dancing. His body, however, had other ideas. He slumped against the other man, suddenly totally exhausted. The man who called himself Ress gently helped him lie down, pulled off his boots and tucked the thin blanket closely around him. 

“I wish you a restful sleep and beautiful dreams”, he said in his melodious voice. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Where can I find your workshop?” 

Francesco gave him directions in a slurred voice, already on the edge of sleep. When he succumbed to the lure of Morpheus, the dark-haired male rose to his feet and made his way to the door. He turned around and glanced at the sleeping artist and mumbled something in a strange, softly lilting language, then left, closing the door quietly behind him. 

*******

Francesco awoke late in the day, almost wishing he hadn’t. He had a hangover that would have brought down an elephant, and his recollections of the previous evening were hazy to say the least. He only managed to drag himself out of bed late in the afternoon, when Leonardo came calling to see that he’d made it home safely. He was still so fuzzy around the edges that he couldn’t really recall why he had a bandage on his throat, which led his friend to ask if he’d had an encounter with a vampire. 

They had a good laugh over that, but Francesco felt a tiny sting of unease in the midst of their mirth. He had vague recollections of a dark-haired, ethereally beautiful man who gazed down at him, and he really had no idea who had bandaged his throat, or even what lay underneath the bandage. He decided not to brood over his lost memories and accompanied his friend to a nearby inn for an early dinner. Francesco refrained from drinking wine this evening and made his excuses rather early. As he walked home, he had a nagging feeling there was something he had forgotten, but no amount of worrying made his memory any clearer. He went to bed that night with a restless mind and didn’t fall asleep until sometime after midnight.

To his own surprise, he woke early in the morning despite his bout with insomnia. As he was performing his morning ablutions, there was a knock on his door. 

“It’s open!” 

The door opened just a crack, and a little boy peered in.

“Master Francesco, there’s a gentleman asking for you at your workshop. He looks rich! He’s really tall and more beautiful than any lady!”

Francesco dropped the towel he’d been holding. He suddenly remembered long dark hair, slanted amber eyes that looked at him with kindness, and the promise of a model. He threw on his work clothes and boots and ran out of his boarding room, heading straight for the workshop. 

His beautiful saviour was standing outside the tiny brick-and-mortar house. Francesco hurried to make apologies, but they were waved off with a kindly smile. 

“It’s not a problem, don’t worry! I realised you were probably not in shape for work yesterday, so I just waited for a while and then went to get an early dinner. I’m a little hurt you forgot about me so quickly though! Could we go inside, I’d like to see your earlier works before we get started?” 

Francesco stammered another apology, and Ress stopped in the doorway.

“I don’t want to hear another apology from you! I’ve stated already that you have nothing to be sorry for. Now show me your artwork and be quick about it!” He gave the poor sculptor a mock glare, then chuckled and patted his shoulder. 

Francesco felt rather self-conscious as he showed his guest around the tiny workshop, explaining some of his more obscure works and blushing at the praise he got. 

Eventually the talk turned to the question of modelling, and Ress shrugged when Francesco again admitted he couldn’t pay him much. 

“I’m not doing it for the money really. I have enough of it, as I’m sure you can tell. I want to help you, because I see, let me say a _spark_ , of something beyond the ordinary. You have a gift, Francesco, and gifts should be nurtured and allowed to flourish. Yours is going to make you famous one day.”

“But… how can you tell just from a few pieces of stone and clay?”

“I can tell because I see something that contains a part of the flame immortal. You may not know what that is, but I do, and I recognise it even at a distance. The flame is in you, and you convey it to the things you create.” 

Francesco couldn’t speak. He couldn’t see either, because his eyes were burning with tears. Finally, someone other than his friends believed in his vision and his talent. Someone was willing to take a chance and trust that he could fulfil his vision. He took a deep breath.

“Let us begin then.” 

******* 

  
He knew he didn’t have long now. The pain in his chest had come more often, and his left arm was sometimes all but useless, numb and screaming in pain at the same time. He supposed he’d had his day, he was an old man, and a celebrated artist, by many considered a master of his field. There was one task he still had to finish before he could go to his rest. He’d had people out looking all over Europe, with little luck, but surely he could hang on a little longer.

The knock on his workroom door was so quiet most would have missed it. The master didn’t. 

“Enter!”

His major-domo came in and cleared his throat quietly. 

“Master Francesco, there are two men at the gate asking to see you. One is very tall and has long black hair. The other is even taller and has hair like sunshine. The dark one said to tell you Ress was calling.”

The master felt his faltering heart beat a little harder at that.

“Show them in! Don’t keep them waiting outside man, go on, quick!”

The major-domo hurried off, and a few minutes later the old sculptor heard voices in the hallway outside his workroom. The door opened and admitted the two men the servant had described. The golden-haired one was unfamiliar, but with such an angelic beauty that it made the old man’s hands ache to sculpt him, perhaps as an archangel. 

The other man was Eros. Only… over forty years had passed, and he hadn’t changed at all. Still the same sensuous mouth, long lashes, sardonic eyebrows. The long, silky black hair was perhaps a bit shorter now, and he was dressed differently, but other than that, the artist could have believed they’d met for the first time only yesterday. 

“Francesco, my friend. I came as fast as I could when your messenger reached me. What is wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?” The dark-haired man’s voice shook a little. 

“Dear Ress, thank you for coming… there’s nothing you can do about old age, my friend. There’s something wrong with this damn heart of mine, and unless you can provide me with a new one or get me a drink from the Fountain of Youth, there’s nothing to be done. Although it does seem like _you_ found the Fountain… you haven’t changed a bit.”

Ress chuckled but didn’t answer. His blonde companion frowned and said something under his breath, and the other man shook his head and answered in the same, unknown language.

“So if magic water wasn’t the only reason you wanted to see me, what was the urgent business your messenger spoke of?”

“I’m dying Ress, and I don’t have years or months… and I wanted to see you one last time. I wanted to tell you what I never had the courage to tell you forty years ago. I love you Ress, I think I loved you from the first time I laid eyes on you… or the second, as I never did recall that first time we met. Too much wine will do that to a man.”

“Francesco…” The man called Ress seemed to be at a loss for words, although his eyes welled up.

“No, no, don’t cry, please don’t. I’m old, and I had a good life, thanks to you. I wanted to ask two things of you.”

“You need but ask.”

“The first thing is this; I want you to have the Eros sculpture. I made a copy of it for my patron but kept the original.” The old man grinned, suddenly looking like a mischievous boy. 

“Francesco! You got paid for that, and as I recall it was a masterpiece! You utter scoundrel!” Ress laughed in delight. 

“I know, I know. I just couldn’t let go of it. It was all I had of you… The second thing I want to ask you to do is… drop your seeming, or glamour, or whatever I should call it. Let me see you like you really are. Please.”

The man called Ress gasped in shock. He stared at the old man like he was unsure he’d heard him correctly. 

“Seeming? Gla… glamour? I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about…” 

“No, Ress. Don’t treat me like a fool. I might act foolishly at times, but I’m not stupid, and you’re not human. I’d wager you never have been either. There were… signs, you could say, and as I loved you so much, I took notice of everything. Please. I want to see you as you are. Consider it a last favour for a man who’ll be dead soon. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I won’t have time… I just want to know…”

The dark-haired man sat down beside the old man on the couch and took both his hands in his own. He looked deeply into his eyes and smiled. Slowly his skin started glowing faintly, and his face, which had been tremendously beautiful, was now exquisitely so, while his eyes with their amber colour acquired a glow too, like backlit topaz. 

The old man sighed gently, his eyes trained on the lovely face in front of him. 

“I knew you’d be even more beautiful than what was showing. You’re beautiful on the inside as well, Ress, of course that would show…”

“Erestor, my name is Erestor. Ress was a nickname of sorts.”

“Erestor… remember the Eros sculpture is yours. It can’t be compared to you, but it’s still the best piece I ever made. I love you Erestor, and I’m so happy your face it the last thing I’ll see…” The old man’s voice trailed off. 

Erestor gave a little whimper and raised the wrinkled, age-spotted hands to his lips and kissed them gently. Then he put the hands down in the old man’s lap and patted them once. 

“He’s gone, ‘Res. We should get going too.” The blonde man’s voice was soft and understanding. 

“We should call for the steward. Francesco should be dressed in finery, they’ll lay him out in state, people will come to say a last farewell. And the sculpture…” At this point, Erestor broke down in tears, and it fell upon his companion to call the major-domo to the room and explain the situation. The sculpture was brought out to their carriage, and once they had it secured, they drove off. 

Later that night, the two uncovered the sculpture and studied it in silence. Finally, the blonde man opened his mouth:

“He seems to have seen more of you than he should have, considering the glamour. And I must say, it’s a _most_ alluring likeness.”

Erestor blushed. “Fin please. I knew about his feelings of course… but since he never made any move, I thought it was more of an infatuation than anything.”

“Would you have…?”

“I don’t know Fin. I really don’t. And now I’ll never find out. Why are these mortals so short-lived Glorfindel?” Erestor's shout was agonised. 

“Short-lived perhaps, but something tells me this mortal’s work will live on for a long time, even if he himself has gone on to wherever humans go when they die.” 

*******

Five hundred years later, Erestor and Glorfindel strolled through the exhibition rooms of a museum in Florence, when Erestor suddenly veered off and stopped in front of a marble bust, about half a metre in height. He studied it for a long time and then turned to his companion.

“It’s Francesco’s… I’d recognise it anywhere. I think I remember it too, some noble lady who’d died young, and her husband wanted her immortalised, so he had Francesco make this from the death-mask.” 

A guide dressed in a dark suit and sporting a nametag came closer and smiled at the two handsome young men, who seemed so fascinated with the modest little marble bust. “You like it? It was made by a real master, called Francesco Laurana, who worked mostly in Naples and Palermo. His works are so lovely, it’s like his subjects weren’t even human, like he’d persuaded angels to model for him.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Shakespeare's Sonnets.


End file.
